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Luke.

I almost ran upon

The subject of your song-wild Martha's willow,

E'en whilst you sang of it.

Mary.

Was that it, Luke ?

How strange and wild it looks! I could remain
And trace its shapes fantastic till the dream
Affrighted me :-That broad and gnarled head,
Crown'd with its upright, spiky stubs, and frowning
Between two mighty sockets, where the wrens
Have built their nests, hath weigh'd its scathed trunk
Aslant the pool, o'er which two stunted branches,
Curling to claws, complete a ramping lion,
Prepared to plunge on all who dare invade
Wild Martha's secret cell. There is a legend,
How, tangled in the roots, she still remains,
And tears the fishers' nets, in the vain struggle
To gain her freedom. Poor, distracted Martha !
She must have been sore used to do such crime !
Luke. 'Tis a hard name which thou hast learn'd,
my Mary,

For the sole means which, harming none, may free
The wretch from misery-I do believe

Wild Martha sleeps as soundly in her cave

As those who rot beneath yon fading steeple-
Some for their lives were happier, and some
For they lack'd courage so to end their griefs.
Mary. Thou never spok'st unkindly, and wouldst

fain

Excuse what inwardly thou'rt shuddering at.

Dost thou forget how often thou hast said

Thy manly heart hath quail'd to pass yon tree
At midnight? If thou thought'st the hapless girl
At rest, thou hadst not fear'd. Dost thou recall
That April Sunday, when the young violets
First peer'd between the moss upon the graves,
How long we saunter'd o'er the lowly hillocks,
And read rude epitaphs, and moralized
In sweetest melancholy? How we linger'd
Beside yon humble bed of good old Adam,
The village patriarch, who, from lowliest state,
Had labour'd on to unpretending comfort,
And left it to his children's children. Oh!
How thou didst reverence that place, and hope,
Like him, to struggle with thy days of trial;
Like him, to sleep the sleep of those who meet
Those days unmurmuring-

(Luke shows much emotion).

What, Luke! dear Luke!

I've been too heedless in my pensive talk,

And thought not of thy present grief.

Luke.

Forget it, Mary-I was only musing

If, tempted to the act of her whose bones,

And still

When skies are clear, may be discern'd far down
In their strange prison, playing with the eddy,
I should be left a like unhallow'd empire
Of fear and utter loneliness-wouldst thou
Ne'er visit the neglected spot which took
The latest of thy husband's living looks?
Wouldst thou refuse to commune with his spirit,

And say thou'st bought his pardon with thy pray'rs !
There is no grief in all the world could sit
So heavily upon my hour of death,

As doubt that thou might'st dread my memory,
And shed no tear o'er him who lov'd thee so.
Mary. Thou reveller in woes impossible!
Luke. But tell me, truly.

Mary.

I'll not answer thee;

Indeed I will not, Luke: it is not well

To pay Heaven's bounty with such fearful fancies. Luke, (after a pause). Well, then, suppose me laid beside old Adam,

With decent holiness, what wouldst thou do

To live, my helpless Mary?

Mary.

Oh, I ne'er

Took joy in making misery for thee!

Luke. I'd have thee go directly to the home
From which I bore thee. Tell thy angry friends
That he who tempted thee to thy offence
Toil'd night and day, till often his worn sinews
Refused to obey him, for thy maintenance-
Tell them he loved thee, never used thee ill,
And ne'er had sent thee back to them to beg,
Had fate not frozen up his willing hand.
They will have pity and receive thee, Mary,
When I am gone.

Mary.

When thou art gone! O, then,

I shall not need more kindness at their hands

Than will suffice to lay me by thy side.

But wherefore, Luke, when thou'rt about to leave me,

And journey, as thou sayest, to a far place-
Wherefore so wilful in thy wild endeavours
To make me weep more sadly o'er thy absence?
Thou wilt have tears enough.

Luke.

Nay, keep them now;
The moment's not yet come which calls for them.
This turn hath brought us where we bid farewell,
And Caleb waits to help thee on the bank.
Good, honest Caleb ! that small hut of his
Shelters a world of most industrious virtue !
All things seem smiling round him-the huge elm
Embraces him with a parental fondness,

And every day puts forth a livelier green.
The waving osiers which enclose his path
Appear to spring more lofty and elastic

Because his hand hath planted them. The wealth
Of his small garden shines, as though the dews
Of heaven were there peculiarly abundant.

His nets which waver, drying, in the air,

Tell how that cheerful home was earn'd, and prove No labour, that is honest, is too humble

To gain the smile of Providence.

Mary.

How blest

Am I to hear thee say so! For it shows
Thou hast forgot thy ill-concealed despair,
And in good Caleb's meek prosperity
Foreseest our own. Nay, 'tis begun already
In thy poor friend's bequest.

Luke.

Farewell, dear Mary.

Here we must part.-Yes, part! (They land opposite Caleb's cottage.)

ENTER CALEB.

Caleb.

Now welcome, Luke,

And welcome your fair wife-Right glad am I

To see so sweet a face beneath my roof.

Mary. Thanks, Caleb, thanks.

Luke.

I need not tell thee, Caleb,

How much thou hast of my good thoughts; here is A proof thou canst not doubt-it is my all. (delivering Mary to him.)

Caleb. It were no lack of hospitality

Were I to hope so questionless a pledge

Of thy good-will might quickly be redeem'd.

Mary. Ay, tell me, Luke-when shall we meet again?

A hundred times I have besought thee fix
Thy earliest day, and thou as oft hast turn'd

To other things, as if that meeting had
No joy for thee.

Luke.

"Twill be in joy indeed!

Mary.

O, when we meet again

And will it so ?

But when-but when, my Luke? To-morrow? No, "Twill surely be the next day?

Luke.

Be content

Thanks,

Ere then I shall be watching o'er thee.

Mary.

Thanks, thanks, O thanks! Why, if it be so soon,

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